True to his word, he’s on the front porch, in gym shorts and a white T-shirt, his hair haphazard, dark spikes jutting every which way. Somewhere between my window and his front door, I’ve started to cry in earnest. He scoops me up and holds me as I shudder against him, trying to muffle my sobs.
After a few minutes, he leans back, hands on my cheeks, angling my face up. I’m sure I’m a mess—I get very splotchy when I cry—but he’s gazing down at me with such concern, I doubt he’s noticed. He whispers, “If you can be silent for ten seconds, we can go upstairs.”
I nod and follow him inside. He closes the door without a sound. We tiptoe through the living room and kitchen, beyond the closed door of his parents’ bedroom, to the staircase that leads to the second floor. We creep past Ivy’s room and the bonus room before making our way into his bedroom. He locks the door before guiding me to his bed and nudging me onto his rumpled sheets. Sinking down beside me, he moves his hand over my back in slow circles as fresh tears trail down my cheeks.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he says. “You’re freaking me out.”
“I’m sorry.” I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “My parents…”
He shakes his head, brows lifted enough to tell me he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“They’re fighting,” I explain. “A lot. Horrible arguments.”
“Jesus, Jill. Since when?”
“Last summer. But lately, since Ally was born, it’s gotten really bad. And my dad… He’s cheating on Meredith.”
Max’s mouth falls open. “Like, anaffair?”
I nod. “He’s never home. He’s evasive. He’s beingsomean. And he was MIA the day Ally was born!” I remember with alarm where I am and pause to find my composure. When I speak again, my voice is quieter, safer. “What kind of man would miss his daughter’s birth?”
“I don’t know… a stupid man? But not one of those things makes your dad a cheater.”
“All piled up they do.”
He reaches for my hand. “I’m not gonna argue that he’s being a dick, but don’t you think you should give him the benefit of the doubt? Maybe he’s busy at work. Maybe he doesn’t know how to deal with the baby and he’s making a mess of things.”
“You’re wrong.”
Max regards me, his mouth set in a deep frown, making me uncomfortable, squirmy. I busy myself trying to remember the last time he saw me cry.… Seventh grade, I decide, riding bikes. I fell (trying to keep up with him) and scraped the hell out of my leg. He helped me, bloodied and bawling, as I hobbled home, then stayed by my side while Meredith (Dad’s fiancée at the time) rummaged through medicine cabinets for gauze and Bactine.
Having read enough from my expression, he says, “What aren’t you telling me?”
“He’s done it before,” I say, and the admission makes me heartsick. “He cheated before, on my mother. He’s the reason she left.”
Max sighs, a sorrowful sound, and draws me into his arms. I cry, hating my helplessness, my vulnerability, despising the tears that scatter like rain across his shirt.
When I’m reduced to rosy cheeks and sniffles, he helps me out of my sweatshirt and shoes, and even though I feel a little like a child, it’s nice to be taken care of. He fluffs a pillow for me, then tucks layers of blankets up to my chin. I’ve never been in his bed before—it’s been years since I’ve even sat on it. It’s so intimate, being wrapped in the sheets he sleeps in, cloaked in his scent and his personal space. I want to hibernate here until winter’s over.
As I watch him stride across the room to flip off the light, I realize he’s replaced Kyle as my go-to friend, the person I reach out to intuitively. When he climbs into bed, I scoot into the cocoon of his embrace and whisper, “Thank you.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“I hate that I woke you.”
“Please, Jill. How many times have I bothered you with my shit? Call whenever you need me, no matter where I am or how late it is.”
“I will,” I say, and then, “Same goes for you.”
He nods, running his hand over my hair. “How come you didn’t tell me about your dad and Meredith?”
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“Not even Kyle?”
“Not even Kyle. It’s not exactly fun to talk about.”
“But you shouldn’t have to deal on your own.” He’s speaking from experience, his voice deep, startling in its seriousness. “Talk to me, okay? Whenever you feel like it. Even if you don’t want me to talk back… I’ll hear you.”
